Between Dying and Death
by Engelska
Summary: In the dark woods of Maine, Sam is wounded by a mystical stag-like creature. The Winchester brothers feel lucky to have escaped with their lives, and all seems well except for one thing. Sam's wound will not heal. Castiel tells Dean that the stag-beast was a Peryton: A creature with the ability to absorb people's souls. Can Dean find a way to save Sam's soul before it's too late?
1. Wings of an Eagle

It was dark.

The moon was obscured by a mantle of clouds, which glowed and grinned as if with the knowledge of what they held in their misty hands. The leafy canopy blocked the stars completely from sight, and Sam and Dean walked in almost utter darkness. The only light came from the LED lantern that Dean clutched in one hand. It cast just enough light to make the trees dance and jump with Dean's easy pace. With each step Sam and Dean took, the dead leaves beneath them crunched and crackled, the painfully loud sound echoing out beyond the ring of dim light.

Dean's grip on his pistol tightened, but his hands did not tremble. His breath steamed out before him like white fog, and Sam's nose was a bright red from the autumn cold.

"Is it here?" Sam said in a whisper. Even then, it sounded too loud to Dean.

"I don't know," Dean replied, "that's what the locals said, wasn't it?"

"That's what they said." Sam peered around him, wishing he had thought to bring another flashlight. But then again, he hadn't expected to be out this long. If things had gone according to plan, they would have found what they were looking for and been out of the forest before dinner.

Dean shook his head and came to a stop. The abrupt lack of sound was disconcerting, and the silence was sudden and absolute. Not even a wind rustled the dry leaves interrupted the stillness.

"This is stupid," Dean said, turning to Sam. The lantern cast stark shadows over Dean's face and Sam could see the familiar skeptical grin. "It's not here. Those old coots at the diner are wackos."

"Are you saying that all five of them are insane?" Sam asked, for indeed all five witnesses had seen the exact same thing, and had been quite adamant about the details. A large, deer-like beast with something on it's back, stepping elegantly through the forest. One of the older witnesses had claimed to have seen the beast with huge, outstretched wings.

"God knows, Sam. It's late, I'm tired and I haven't seen a scrap of food since lunch. There's no sign of the thing. You know what old people are like."

Sam looked around once more, but only the shapes of trees and undergrowth met his eyes. He had to admit, the existence of such a beast did seem unlikely. Neither Sam nor Dean had read anything about it in John's journal. Not even Bobby had heard of any winged deer creatures.

Sam sighed, "Yeah, okay. Let's head back. We can start again tomorrow."

"Or, you know what, there's a case down in Texas," Dean said. He began to walk back in the direction they had come. "Owl-Bears. Garth said that he's got a case with honest-to-God Owl. . . "

Dean's words died in his mouth, when he heard the slow and steady _crunch, crunch, crunch_ of leaves in the darkness before him. Sam's throat went dry, and both of them raised their pistols. Dean raised the lantern as well, throwing the light as far as it would go out into the forest. A chill flowed through them both, and the hair on the backs of their necks stood on end.

Sam looked at Dean, and their eyes met. They nodded, and braced themselves for whatever was coming.

At first, they could only see it as a huge mass just beyond the lantern light, but slowly, ever so slowly, it came closer. Then, it stepped into the light. Dean scowled, his eyebrows coming together as they always did when he saw something he could not understand. Sam's breath caught, and together they looked upon what faced them.

It was the most beautiful creature Dean had ever seen. It glimmered a fantastic, iridescent blue, with hooves of the purest black. _It was a stag_. A huge stag that stood as tall, if not taller, than Dean himself. It's neck was elegantly arched, it's head raised, it's eyes were black and framed with long lashes. Instead of fur, the great beast had short feathers that were of the purest blue Dean had ever seen. Horns as sharp as knives flowed from the beast's brow in gentle waves. But what really took his breath away was the pair of great wings that sat folded neatly against the stag's back. There, the feather's were long, and the blue was tinged with sea-green. Dean guessed that if the beast decided to spread them, it's wingspan would have been somewhere around twenty feet. It stepped over the leaves, it's hooves crushing them delicately for a beast of it's size. It came towards them without fear or hesitation, making no sound at it went.

It was a pure creature, Dean sensed. It was a creature of light and stars, and his heart was completely taken with the great stag. It's eyes were full of innocence and it's movements were gentle and careful. He could not harm such a beast. When Dean remembered that he had come with the intent to kill the winged stag, he was flooded with self-disgust. He was too impure, too dirty to look upon this creature. This creature was clean, while Dean himself was tainted. Bloodstained.

Beside him, Sam stood in the same trance. He was enthralled. His eyes met the beast's, and it came toward him with sure, delicate steps. The night seem to pull away from this creature. The darkness simply could not touch it, and it radiated with a light of it's own. An inner light that flooded out between the sapphire feathers and spilled onto Sam's face.

The stag lowered it's large head, brushing it's nose briefly against Sam's forehead. Sam felt the tingle of it's touch over his brow, and he could not pull away. Though, deep inside him, alarm bells were beginning to chime. Still, the presence of the winged-beast drowned them out, and Sam did not move. The gun hung forgotten in his loose grip.

Pulling back, the stag lowered it's head until it's horns were level with Sam's heart.

Dean watched all of this with giddy elation. Simply being in the presence of such a beast made his blood boil and flow with light. But, as he watched the stag lower it's horns, the elation began to fade. Something was wrong. _This was not right._ The beast reared back, ready to drive it's horns right through Sam's chest. With an effort that nearly tore him in two, he wrenched his mind from the beast's magical grasp and acted.

Dean threw himself into Sam just as the stag thrust it's horns forward and Sam cried out as the razor-sharp bone cut into his skin. They landed in a tangle of limbs and dry leaves. The lantern, which had flown from Dean's grasp, went tumbling and sent the light into a dizzying dance of light and shadow.

"Sam!" Dean yelled as he jumped to his feet. He had raised his gun and stood facing the huge stag, not daring to look away. "Sammy, you alright?"

Now that the spell was broken, Dean saw that the stag was much less glamorous than he had originally thought. While the beast's feathers still glinted in the light, Dean could see that they were bedraggled and askew. While it was still elegant, it did not glow with a light of it's own and it's eyes shimmered with harsh intent.

After a moment of gasping and rustling leaves, Sam said, "Yeah, I'm okay!"

"Good," Dean said, and fired his gun straight at the stag.

The stag leapt aside with lightening agility, darting towards Dean in the same moment. Dean hurled himself out of the way and the stag bolted past, it's horns an inch away from Dean's skin.

Behind him, Sam let off shot after shot towards the stag. It leapt and bounded and not a single bullet hit it's mark.

Before Dean could jump to his feet, the stag raced off into the forest away from the brothers and their speeding bullets. It's aggression seemingly gone, it leapt away. In one huge bound, it's wings unfolded to their full length. Dean had been right in his guess. The stag's wingspan was easily twenty feet across, and they arched gently to catch the breeze. It soared up, crashing through the leafy canopy and up into the night sky beyond. It was out of sight in a moment.

After a second of shocked silence, Sam offered Dean a hand and quickly hauled his brother to his feet.

"What the hell was that thing?" Dean asked, picking up the lantern and brushing away a few leaves that stuck to the warm plastic.

Sam shrugged, "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it."

"Well, those old coots were right." Dean said, starting off once more in the direction of the Impala. "God, I probably picked up a hundred ticks in those leaves."

The brothers walked quickly towards the Impala, not wishing for a second encounter with the creature. Dean became positively chatty, blathering on about the stupid impossibility of the blue winged stag. Oh sure, he had seen things before in his lifetime, but nothing at all like the thing. The stag. Sam, on the other hand, was rather quiet. The stag had awoken in him emotions he hadn't felt in years.

Both of them were stunned by what they had seen. It was not the appearance of the stag that had surprised them. Both of them had encountered enough odd things to last them ten lifetimes. No. It was the feeling. The feeling of pure joy as they looked upon the stag. The light that seemed to flow through their veins, and the gentle presence that seemed to hang about the winged-creature like a mist.

No matter how fake it had been, the feeling of pure, unadulterated safety and joy was rare for the brothers. It was rare, but very, very welcome. Neither Sam nor Dean had felt such safety in years. Perhaps when they were children, in the days before the Yellow-Eyed Demon had torn their family apart. Perhaps then they felt safe. But since they had been awoken to the world of spirits and demons by their father, even their most safe, sacred ground had become dangerous territory.

Nowhere was safe for a hunter.

Sam's thoughts raced. He was finding it hard to comprehend that he had never heard of the winged-stag before. With the feelings and emotions it brought on, along with it's very unique appearance, he figured that it would be one of the more common 'mythical' creatures. Hell, they had found five witnesses in one town. How could such a creature go unnoticed?

Unless it was a new creature.

Sam wasn't sure what this meant or how to proceed from there, so he stored the thought away and focused on putting one step in front of another, patiently listening to Dean talk about one of his old girlfriends.

As it was, not much of consequence was said before Sam and Dean reached the Impala. Dean fell into the driver's seat and closed the door with a slam, leaning back in the relative comfort of the Impala's warm familiarity. He cranked up the heat, warming his hands over the vents as Sam sat in the passenger side.

"I'll call Bobby again," said Dean, as he shifted the Impala into reverse and began to pull back onto the narrow dirt road by which they had arrived. "He's gotta know something. Or someone, at least. You know, maybe-"

Dean stopped mid-sentence. In the dim light from the radio, he could see something staining Sam's jacket. Something dark.

Dean reached up and flicked on the overhead light, eyes widening as he saw Sam's denim jacket gleaming wetly with dark blood.

"Sam, _oh, my freakin' God_, I thought you said you were alright!" Dean said, anger clear in his voice.

"I . . .I am!" Sam said, looking down at himself in surprise. He dabbed at his jacket with careful fingertips. They came away bright scarlet. "I didn't think he got me that good!"

Dean gritted his teeth with worry, "That's a lot of blood, dude. We're not far from the hotel. Just-Just keep pressure on it till we get there."

Sam winced and pressed his hands against his side, where the blood was flowing steadily through a hole in his coat. "Dean, I've been stabbed before. _I think I've got it_. Thanks."

If Dean heard the sarcastic remark, he didn't show it. All he did was step on the gas, sending the Impala speeding away down the dirt road, leaving a trail of dust floating on the air behind them.


	2. Eggs

The Impala roared into the Hotel Paradisio parking lot after ten minutes of breakneck driving. The metallic scent of Sam's blood was heavy in the air, and in the dim light Dean could see that his brother was growing paler by the second. Sam leaned his head against the window, his hand still pressed against the wound that oozed blood between his fingertips.

Dean kicked his door open and dashed over to the passenger side. Sam gingerly pushed his own door open and got shakily to his feet. He simply couldn't understand what had happened. What he had said before had been the truth. The beast had only struck him a glancing blow, and yet it was bleeding as if an artery had been severed. Even the pain wasn't bad, but it had been a long time since he had lost that much blood and it was taking it's toll.

Sam took a step and swayed alarmingly, stars clouding his vision and ears ringing. Dean swore, catching Sam about the shoulders before he could collapse.

"I'm good, I'm good," Sam said, leaning heavily against Dean as he tried to regain his balance.

"God damn," Dean said. "Come on, let's get you inside."

Hotel Paradisio was not the cleanest hotel Sam and Dean had stayed in, but it was definitely not the dirtiest. The smell of dust hung in the air, wafting from the dark red carpet and curtains, which were drawn tight over the windows and casting the room into a dull, warm darkness.

From the door Sam made his own way to one of the two beds where he sat down heavily, bouncing slightly on the creaky mattress. His head felt light, and the world was tipping and bouncing in a very disorienting way. As Dean darted about, turning on lights and clattering about looking for a first aid kit, Sam peeled off his coat and then pulled his t-shirt over his head. He grit his teeth as the threads pulled free of the wound, but didn't complain. Like the hotel, this was not by far the worst wound he had received.

Sam wadded up the already blood-soaked shirt and held it against his side, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. If the world had been spinning it all before, it was really spinning now. He lay back, his legs still hanging out over the mattress, and put an arm over his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.

"Sam," Dean said, sitting on the bed beside his brother. "Sammy," he said a little louder. Sam didn't respond. Either he had fallen into a dose or he had passed out. In this case, both options were bad news. Dean set down his armload of supplies and shook his little brother by the shoulder. Sam breathed deeply and drew his arm away from his eyes. He was pale as death, and his eyes were darkly shadowed. The t-shirt that he held to his side was nearly completely drenched, but at least he was awake.

Dean reached out and pulled Sam's hand away, "I'm going to look at that scratch of yours, okay? So don't go all Bruce Lee on me."

Sam nodded and placed his arm back over his eyes. Despite the brief relief of blackness, the world was still tilting alarmingly and stars were beginning to twinkle at the edges of his vision. He felt cold. Goosebumps were rising over his bare chest and arms, and yet sweat made his hair stick to his face in damp strands.

Dean pulled the t-shirt away as gently as he could, wincing as the fabric stuck to Sam's hot skin. He grabbed a towel and a bottle of whiskey from his supplies and took a generous swig of the amber liquid before splashing some onto the towel. He dabbed and patted the wound, doing his best to ignore Sam's hissing. Dean knew from experience that whiskey burned like hell, but it got the job done.

He drew the towel away from Sam's skin, peering at the wound in the dim light. It was a ragged hole about the size of a nickel. Even as Dean pulled the cloth away, more blood welled and tricked from the gash in Sam's side. He patiently wiped the wound again, then used his fingers to press and poke the skin around it.

"God, Dean, please," Sam said in his very familiar annoyed voice, "can you stop that? Just stop the bleeding, won't you?"

Dean continued to prod, once again ignoring his brother and focusing on his task. He couldn't feel any odd lumps or knots, which meant no muscles had been cut. In fact, it looked like the beast's horns had only just broken through the skin. Dean could see the slight rippling of muscle just below what must have been the thin layer of connective tissue, which surrounded and protected the muscle from damage. In all, it was not a serious wound in the least.

Finally, he pressed the alcohol-soaked towel over the wound and sighed. "I don't know, Sam. It's not deep, but it's still bleeding like a fangirl's heart."

"Sew it up, then," Sam said, his voice slurring drunkenly, "Or cauterize it, or something. Just stop the blood, Dean. I don't have much of it left."

Dean agreed and pulled a needle and thread from the first-aid kit he had found under the bathroom sink. Sam grit his teeth as Dean wove the needle in and out of his skin, but he bore it without complaint. Anything was better than the damned spinning. And he was cold. So cold. His fingers and toes felt like ice, and he longed to let himself fall into blessed sleep. But he knew that sleeping was a bad idea. It would be a very simple matter for one to slip from sleep into a coma, when huge amounts of blood was lost.

Finally, Dean tugged the threads together and tied them tightly. He dampened the towel with whiskey once more, and wiped away the blood that had dripped down Sam's side during the stitching process. Blood still oozed from between the flaps of skin, but the flow at least was somewhat stemmed.

"There you go, Sammy," Dean said, poking through the first aid kit for some gauze. "Just don't rip it open like you did last time and it'll be fine."

With a sigh and a groan, Sam levered himself into a sitting position so Dean could place a square of soft gauze over the stitching.

"That wasn't my fault," Sam said. "The witch freaking pushed me into that grave, Dean. It wasn't intentional."

Dean ripped a few pieces of medical tape from the roll and secured the gauze tightly. "Then don't unintentionally rip them again."

"I'll do my best," Sam said and stiffly lay down again. Dean gathered up the unused supplies as Sam kicked off his boots, rolled himself into the blankets and succumbed to the beckoning blackness.

Dean threw the excess bandaging, scissors and general medical miscellany onto the table and sat heavily in one of the chairs. Leaning back, he propped his feet up on the wooden surface with the bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. He poured himself a drink and tossed it back quickly. He poured another, but this time he nursed the golden liquid, deep in thought.

His mind's eye was filled with the image of the beast. The great, winged stag with feathers the color of the sea and eyes the color of the blackest coal. It's beauty, it's power, and the razor sharp horns that had gored his brother.

But, see, there was the thing. The wound had not been serious, but it bled like a waterfall. Dean knew that areas of the body with strong circulation or a lot of micro-veins tended to bleed heavily, but to his knowledge the torso was not either.

He took a sip, feeling the familiar burn in his chest and feeling it work it's way down to his stomach.

No. He decided it was best not to worry about it until the morning, when both he and Sam were feeling better and could figure out what the stag thing was.

* * *

><p>"Rise and shine, Sammy!"<p>

Sam groaned and tossed an arm over his eyes as light pierced his eyelids.

"Come on, I made eggs and bacon."

Sam rolled over, but halted mid-movement as there was a sharp flare of pain in his chest. Then the memories came back and he stilled himself. He felt a little better than the night before. When he opened his eyes, the world no longer spun and the hazy stars were gone.

"Wait," Sam said, his voice groggy with sleep, "You cooked?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He stood in the kitchenette holding a frying pan in one hand and a half-eaten piece of toast in the other. "Don't act so surprised."

"Last time you cooked, you set off the fire alarm. The whole hotel had to evacuate, don't you remember?"

"No," Dean said. He used a plastic spatula to drop a couple of scrambled eggs onto two paper plates, "I don't remember. Now come on, eat! We have to find out what the hell that thing was yesterday."

Sam sat up, feeling a strange weakness in his joints and muscles. He resisted the urge to stretch and threw the covers aside. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and moved to get to his feet. Dean, who was looking at him across the room, nearly dropped his pan of eggs. Sam quickly looked down. His entire left side was stiff and the red and brown of drying blood. The stain spread down his pant-leg and spilled out onto the bedsheets.

The blood had dried leaving the cloth of his pants and bed stiff and crusty, but a trickle of bright, red, fresh blood could still be seen trickling from beneath the useless bit of gauze and bandage.

Sam's face went deathly pale, and his hands fluttered nervously around his chest and wound. Sam was not the kind of person to faint at the sight of blood. But the sight of so much blood, so much of his blood, was enough to make him nervous.

"Dean?" He said, looking up at his brother with worry in his eyes.

Dean grabbed a towel from the kitchenette and dashed to Sam's side, sliding the last few feet over the carpet on his knees.

"God damnit. God, Sam, what did that thing do to you?"

Dean gave the towel to Sam just to give him something to do with his hands. Then, as gently as he could, he peeled the bandage away from the wound. The constant flow of blood had kept the gauze from sticking and the damp tape came away from Sam's skin easily.

And there it was.

Blood still dripped gently from between the stitches. No sign of a clot had formed, and the skin around it was hot and red.

Sam pressed the towel quickly over the wound, "Dean, it's okay," he said, even though the tone in his voice said the opposite. "Just tie the bandage tighter this time."

Dean pressed a piece of gauze to the wound as he had the night before, and Sam held it there as Dean wrapped length after length of bandaging around Sam's chest, finally pulling the lengths together as tightly as he could before weaving a quick knot.

Dean got to his feet and gripped Sam's arm, helping him to stand as well, "Dude, whatever that thing was it messed you up bad."

Sam waved Dean away, walking stiffly to the bathroom to clean off the blood and change his clothes, "We need to figure out what it was, first. You call Bobby, I'll do some research after I wash all this off."

Dean sat down with his eggs and toast and pulled a phone from his pocket. Dialing the familiar number, he put the phone to his ear and listened as it rang.

After five rings, Bobby picked up.

"Hello?"

Dean sat back with a cup of coffee in his hand, "Bobby, hey."

"Dean! Find anything on that case of yours?"

"That's why I'm calling. It was a stag all done up with blue feathers and wings. You heard of anything like that?"

"No," Bobby said, "No, I can't say I have."

"Alright," Dean said. Then, on a whim he asked, "Have you ever heard of a scratch that won't stop bleeding?"

"Only cursed wounds and the like. Wait, Dean, why?" Bobby's tinny voice was suddenly full of concern, "What happened?"

"We had a run-in with that thing last night. Bobby, he got Sam. Just a scratch but, damn, it's been bleeding all night."

"Did you sew it up?"

"Yeah."

"And it's still bleeding?"

"Yeah."

"Did you try cauterizing it?"

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "No," he said, "Sammy's not going to like that idea."

"I knew this gal, Betty. She got scratched by a Fauna. They leave cursed wounds, you know. She bled out, Dean. In days."

"What are you trying to say, Bobby?" Dean said angrily.

"Just don't let it get out of hand, boy. I'll ask around, see what I can learn, alright? I'll call you once I learn something."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Dean tossed the phone onto the table and sat, thinking. It couldn't have been a cursed wound. The scratch on Sam's side didn't show any signs of being cursed; black, oozy or infected. It was just a wound that wouldn't clot.

He took a deep breath and picked up his fork. He shouldn't worry. It wouldn't do to worry. Both of the brothers had sustained worse wounds, and both of them had survived. But still, Dean's mind leapt to the worst conclusions, and he stuffed his mouth full of eggs in order to clear them from his thoughts.

Just then, Sam came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and the scent of cheap soap. He was dressed in a new pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. All the blood was gone, and his face had lost some of the sickly sheen it had gained overnight. But he was still pale from the surprising amount of blood he had lost.

Dean waved him over, and Sam sat in front of his eggs and picked up a fork with bent and dented tines.

"Feeling better?" Dean asked, sitting back to sip his coffee as Sam dug into his eggs with gusto.

"I will once I eat," Sam said around a mouthful of food.

"How's your, uh, thing?"

Sam shrugged, "It's fine. Did Bobby have anything to say?"

The coffee in Dean's cup was black, with little pale brown bubbles rimming the glass. It was horrible, actually. It was as bitter as battery acid, but it was hot and it gave him something to hold on to. He shook his head, "Nah. Said he'd ask around and call back."

Sam nodded. His plate was empty, but he twisted the fork in between his fingers and Dean could tell that his brother was eying his own plate of unfinished eggs. Sighing, Dean pushed his plate closer to Sam, who took it without arguing and once again set to work.

"Well," Sam said, halting his eating for a moment to swallow some battery acid coffee, "I'll go down to the library, maybe I can find some old records or local newspaper clippings. I'm sure I'll find something."

"I'll ask the locals then." Dean replied, sighing. "Someone other than oldsters has to have seen the blue stag-bird thing that went for a stroll last night."

Dean pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his coffee on the table. He hadn't bothered to finish the stuff; it really had been terrible coffee. Then again, he himself had made it so he couldn't complain. Dean may have been able to cook scrambled eggs, but making crap coffee grounds into not-crap coffee was far beyond his skill range.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and double thanks for reviewing! Your reviews really mean the world to me. ^^<br>**


End file.
